*I’ll apologize in advance if any references in this gift request plants a festive earworm in your head. But, like the motto underneath my family crest states: Si nos miseri erimus, ceteri quoque erunt.*

All I want for Christmas is to get “All I Want for Christmas” banished from my skull. I don’t think Ms. Carey’s annual ditty is a bad song per se. Many people enjoy listening to it while getting into the holiday spirit. It’s perfect background noise for wrapping presents or decorating the home. Since October 29th,1994, it has successfully targeted a specific niche from Thanksgiving to December 26th. I can’t dismiss its popularity. Kudos to its longevity.

But much to my chagrin, it dominates the seasonal soundtrack of my life. My limited mental capacity can’t, hasn’t or won’t commit all the lyrics to memory. And I don’t have the intellectual fortitude to prevent the fragments I can recall from replaying over and over ad nauseum. So, I am powerless to stop it from being the only partial song (holiday or otherwise) aired on heavy rotation from my mind’s DJ booth. I can’t ignore it either.

So, what I want to find under my Christmas tree is the cessation of being auditorily waterboarded by portions of this tune. Granting release from such Yuletide torture is a priceless gift that keeps on giving. I’ll be forever indebted if Santa leaves this for me.

Now, I am a fervent believer in the concept of “careful what you wish for.” I accept that when random lines from the Queen of Christmas’ jingle spontaneously surface, monopolizing the Muzak playlist echoing through the empty halls of my addled brain, it means there’s no possible way “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer” or “Dominick the Donkey” will be able to gain purchase in my noggin.

It’s a victory, albeit a hollow one. I understand a blessing is a blessing even if said blessing is an incessant, lesser-of-three-evils one that can drive a man to the breaking point where he purposely doesn’t hang the stockings by the chimney with care. Still, a bit of variety or say in what I hear would be welcomed.

Psychological intervention may be necessary to discover why I can’t cue up something more appealing from my personal, archived mixtape. There are many suitable alternative carols with beautiful melodies I would cherish listening to internally. Like “Carol of the Bell.” Or “Silver Bells.” Both bring me auricular pleasure, but neither can loosen Mariah’s stranglehold and they stay muted. (At this juncture, I’d even settle for “Hells Bells” on continuous loop it if meant Mimi gets a break to rest her vocal cords.)

Thankfully, 2025 will be here soon which means “AIWFC” will have run its course and be shelved for eleven months. This gives me hope knowing that in a few days, there will be no cueing up of uninvited music that will keep playing.

To those reading this, I’ll end by extending a heartfelt “Merry Christmas.” If you don’t celebrate Christmas, then I’ll bid you a sincere “Happy Hanukkah.” For the non-religious in attendance, I’ll offer a generalized, “Happy Holidays.” For the remaining who don’t celebrate anything, I’ll conclude with a simple, “Be well and look both ways before crossing the street.”

Your emergence into this world begins with your first inhalation. Your transition out of this world begins after your final exhalation. Although the circumstances vary, both moments are inevitable and common denominators for everyone. A little or a lot, if you are drawing air into your lungs, removing the oxygen component and releasing the byproduct, then you’re living. Breathing is a fundamental and imperative basis for each person’s existence.

So, the standard by which we measure the caliber of our life shouldn’t be how deep a breath we take. A purpose-driven life comes from how we utilize our talents during and between respirations. Success, and failure, is what gives value to time. Having value to time is indicative of leading a quality life. Looking back on where we were in relation to where we are will prove if our lives are meaningful.

A breath’s intensity doesn’t matter. The toddler’s small puff of air is sufficient for blowing out two birthday candles. That’s enough to give her a sense of pride while bringing joy to those sitting around the table applauding the feat. Whispering “I love you and will see you again someday,” to an unresponsive spouse in hospice care delivers both a reminder and a promise that exemplifies the commitment to a decades-long union. The cancer patient in remission belts out, with full, forceful exhalation, Auld Lang Syne as a defiant proclamation of victory. Screaming at the top of your lungs, “I deserve better,” is a cathartic empowerment. All these impactful moments were made possible using differing volumes of air.

Whether dealing with COPD or training for an Olympic marathon, an individual can make a difference in the world. Rejoice in whatever amount of air you’re breathing. If it yields positive results, your life is full.

Walk through a cemetery both in remembrance of the family, friends or even strangers who have gone before you and as a reminder that someday you will take your inevitable place with them, joining the ranks of the deceased.

Although the plot sizes may be uniform, there are various styles of grave markers. They range from minimalist, a rectangular piece of granite situated in such a way that the groundskeeper can pass over it with a lawn mower, to towering obelisks, drawing your attention towards the sky.

Some have been there so long that the exterior is weathered. The elements have compromised the inscription, making it difficult to read. Others are newer with the engraving still defined. Passing your hand over it, your fingers can differentiate each individual letter. You’ll see religious symbols glorifying a god or markings identifying a service to America. A few have squat, wrought iron fences along the perimeter, even though there’s no chance any neighboring souls will ever physically encroach on this plot of land.

Natural bouquets in store-bought vases or decorations are left by the tombstones. Over time, the ornaments become bleached by the sun. The fresh-cut flowers will wilt and decompose, like an analogy of the person they were for. Small tokens with hidden meanings are left behind as loved ones attempt to keep their family members connected to the physical world.

The four things all the markers have in common are a name, the date of birth, the date of death and a space (or hyphen) between the dates. Celebrating when a person was born and remembering when they died are important bookmarks. But the truly impactful area is the overlooked space separating the DOB and DOD. That unassuming blank area symbolizes the person’s life. Everything done and all the lives touched are hidden behind that space. The threads of experiences woven together to create the tapestry of the deceased’s life are summarized by a non-descript emptiness separating two specific dates.

Whoever knew that person is part of that barren surface. But who’s still alive that can recall the stories it holds? As acquaintances and generations fade away, memories will no longer be relived and shared with those who never knew this person. What impactful events in that person’s life are destined to be erased with time’s passage? What regrets were had? What opportunities were missed or plans never executed that could have added importance to that void? The smallest area on the tombstone represents the entirety of someone’s life. It will always occupy the same part on the marker but never outwardly reveal the complex story of the person it is a testimony to.

Cemeteries remind me not to substitute complacency for comfort. I strive to excel in my Comfort Zone. But I am aware my Comfort Zone is dynamic because it has and will continue changing over the years according to my needs, experiences or maturity. Not reexamining then redefining my Comfort Zone means it will become a Complacent Zone. Life is static in the Complacent Zone. Accepting complacency as the norm eliminates risk which increases the chance that I won’t even realize I’m slowly being smothered. I’ll end up neck deep, wallowing in Complacent Zone quicksand with no desire to free myself.

My plan is to be dynamic so that when I’m exiting this wild and precious life, I’ll be at peace knowing the gap on my tombstone between birth and death is not a wasted space.

A quick question to ponder,

for those whose hearts don’t wander.

If one and one are one,

then why does one minus one equate to...aargh...a vacuous, blackhole pit of despair reaching such a magnitude of suckage that nothing, including but not limited to joy and hope for a better future, can escape the accompanying shroud of negative, soul-crushing darkness resulting in a miniscule chance to find love again, even after adding more ones that its mother assured would be perfect fits when done?

Ummmm, asking for a friend who, unlike me,

isn’t “new math” savvy.

With varying degrees of intensity,

my internal war rages on.

Freedom of choice vs. obligation to others,

a conflict that’s been fought since time’s dawn.

The battle requires a decision to be made

that personal responsibility must mediate.

Choosing a position to take is juxtaposed

to choosing a position to abdicate.

The skirmish renews each morning,

since the tempest percolates whilst I sleep.

There’s no option that involves fleeing

because the repercussion would echo too deep.

I long for a palatable solution,

which could usher in welcomed peace.

But my internal war will continue raging on,

'til I find an existential release.

I was born in the video game world. Both my parents (as well as their parents) were behind the scenes NPCs. But they never felt they weren’t important. They took pride in the roles they were designed for and instilled this sense of self-worth in me.

By the tender age of 10, I was helping my mom with her real estate business. I did odds and ends around the office, tidying up and reading the occasional telegram. She sold homesteads along the Oregon Trail. From my 16-bit perspective, it was an exciting field filled with intrigue and adventure. Trying to make a difference for hard-working people looking for a better life out West, she considered herself the facilitator of dreams.

As an independent contractor, my mom never let on the struggles she, and of course, her clients, faced. She’d invest hours analyzing the ever-changing maps and charts to find the perfect location that hadn’t already had a claim staked against it. She accurately filled out the cross-state paperwork in triplicate, making sure all pertinent documentation was ready before the afternoon’s Pony Express departed. She was meticulous when it came to synchronizing the time, date and location the parties involved in the closing were to meet.

Unfortunately, after all the details were finalized, a potential homeowner would more often than not die from dysentery before even crossing Wyoming. Heartbreaking on all fronts. Usually, the remaining members of the grieving family would give up hope, divert to the south and settle in Salt Lake City or Boulder. My mom was not licensed in either location. So, all that work and energy she put in was for nothing. If your income is solely derived from commission, deals that fall through make for anemic paychecks. But my mom persevered with a programmed smile on her face.

So, I was destined to follow in my parents’ footsteps. When old enough, I set out on my own with the intent of being part of something big. It’s scary in the world of graphics. But life was good in 1981. Optimism was giving the country a big, warm embrace. America was prospering under President Reagan’s “Trickle-Down Economics” policies.

I understand that for others to advance, a consistent supply of inventory is necessary for the true players to triumph in their respective quests. I recognized this broad niche and decided to fill some portion of it so I could take a big terabyte of the profit pie topped with a heaping scoop of capitalist ice cream. My question was, “What void can I fill?” Deep down I knew when I got this answer, I’d be on the way.

While waiting in line at craft services one afternoon, I listened as a spunky Italian in front of me commiserated with other players. Seems he’s currently in a protracted battle with a gorilla named Donkey Kong, or DK as he was known in the gaming community. Apparently, DK is a thorn in the side of this plumber, Mario, and his girl, Pauline, by trying to keep Mario at bay and having Pauline all to himself.

Mario, in passing, mentioned he wished he had better wooden mallets to smash the barrels constantly being tossed at him. The ones he wields now are too heavy. Hearing this, a serendipitous lightbulb flicks on in my head. Without hesitation, I interrupt, “Wooden mallets you say. I can get you wooden mallets. My mother knows where the clear cutting of vast tracks of land out west is being done. She can get lumber. My father’s the foreman at the bat manufacturing company for Intellivision’s Major League Baseball game. Together, we can make you mallets.”

“Thatza great. Howza big can yous maka them?” “As big as you.” “Whatta kinda wood ya gonna uza?” “Ash, of course,” I state with confidence. “Oy, mamma mia, Imma in,” Mario replies. I was now on the way.

Selling wooden mallets that haven’t been produced yet to a stranger in blue overalls that’s being harassed by a barrel-tossing monkey was not the path I thought I’d ever take. But sometimes the path you’re on is really an exit ramp to bigger things. I jumped at the opportunity knowing things will work out in the end. So that’s the start of my relationship with Mario and the inception of my company: Mallets, Mallets, Mallets.

I didn’t realize how huge a client Mario would become and how many mallets were needed for all his games. After a quick learning curve, my small company managed to keep up with the demand and we forged a solid working partnership.

“Yup,” was the curt response he gave when I asked my brother if he would like to make a lot of money. I noticed that DK would go through a 100 times more barrels during a game than Mario did with mallets. This was an untapped market. But my moral compass points North. I didn’t feel it was right to sell DK barrels that would be destroyed by mallets I sold to Mario. It came off as a conflict of interest. But with my brother’s experience repairing wagon wheels for my mom’s players, it was an easy transition for him to lead the newly formed business: Barrels, Barrels, Barrels. And my compass only deviated a couple of degrees.

Our cousin came on board to supply the oil and fire for the burning drum. She was a borderline arson who ultimately worked on the pyrotechnics involved with the Adamant Flame from Street Fighter. She was also a wiz regarding regulations and overcame the minor speedbump when the embargo kicked in and oil prices shot through the roof. Being resourceful while stretching the law regarding imports, she formed a shell corporation in the Bahamas to avoid the tariffs. This kept production costs from ballooning and the money poured into our coffers. All was well in the world. But a healthy stream of revenue means the inevitable unhealthy flood of drama.

First, Mario’s brother, Luigi, got into some legal trouble with the Feds after overstaying his work visa. The bilingual, human rights attorney who took the case and was smart enough to get the charges dismissed while securing a green card for Luigi came with a hefty price. Those billable hours depleted a large chunk of the brother’s retirement savings.

Pauline wanted to start a family, but Mario got into professional go cart racing. He met Princess Peach in late 1984 at the Monaco Grand Prix and that was the beginning of the end for his relationship with Pauline. As someone who was always the “damsel in distress,” I was surprised when she got a cutthroat attorney. Although they were never married, her barrister convinced the jury that she was Mario’s common-law wife. Without a prenup, Mario was on the hook for half his net worth. That’s a whole lot of quarters. Last I heard she was married to a programmer and residing in Los Gatos.

PETA got involved by filing a cease-and-desist letter citing that DK was subjected to animal abuse and inhumane conditions. When PETA disregarded DK’s multiple restraining orders, their letter was withdrawn.

The International Association of Bridge, Structural, Ornamental and Reinforcing Iron Workers, Local 605 started raising a stink over the use of non-union labor for rebuilding the trusses Mario destroyed while climbing to save Pauline. Greasing the teamsters’ palms wasn’t cheap.

Then Mario got into an extended contractional dispute over licensing residuals with Nintendo. He was looking to parlay his joy of driving carts into a full-time gig with his brother and thought he should be properly compensated. Nintendo countered that Mario’s licensing fee covered all future endeavors. In the end, Mario got a physician to deem his knees arthritic and climbing ladders was counterintuitive to Mario’s long-term health. Both sides agreed to a court-sealed settlement. Personally, I think climbing ladders reminded Mario of Pauline and brought up painful memories of what was and what could have been.

By then, there was scuttlebutt circulating that my job was one of many in consideration for being outsourced to a third-party vendor in Mumbai. I saw the writing on the wall and went my own way. It was a good run. But as with any successful venture, there’s popularity. And popularity leads to incrementally higher levels of fame. Fame always begets money, which ultimately ushers in stress-headaches. I was too young to have stress-headaches. After spending some time as the exclusive pizza caterer to the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, I left the video game world for good. We all outgrow our comfort zones. I stayed in technology though. Now I service bitcoin vending machines.

Since I was never a marquee name, I don’t get invited to any Comic Cons or asked to join gamer podcasts. That’s okay, I welcome the freedom anonymity brings. I can reminisce about the good old days, painting memories with broad brushstrokes of biased nostalgia. And can do it without being worried that I’m going to get hit with a barrel. Or unplugged.

Here’s my four cents worth, adjusted for inflation, on this subject.

Each generation is exposed to technology that previous generations didn’t understand or realize was needed. I don’t own a Roomba, Alexa or a “smart” refrigerator. It’s not because I’m fearful that having devices built around varying degrees of AI technology will unite and conspire to usurp my authoritarian position as homeowner then join forces with other conquered households to achieve the end goal of overthrowing our government.

I don’t own these because I can sweep my own floors. I’m never multitasking so many things that my hands aren’t freed up to set a timer. And I don’t need to get a text while at work alerting me, “UR low on milk.” I believe AI can offer comfort and convenience. It’s just at this stage of life, I’m not uncomfortable or inconvenienced enough to justify paying extra for these features.

Sunday nights, after watching Lassie at 7 p.m. on CBS Channel 19, it was my responsibility to get up from the couch and physically rotate a dial on the television, slowly and always counterclockwise so it wouldn’t wear out, all the way around to NBC Channel 3 so we could enjoy The Wonderful World of Disney. A minor chore that was worth the effort and reward. Then came cable and the universal remote. Then the DVR. And here I’m anchored, binge watching at my leisure shows my tv thinks I’ll enjoy that it recorded last week.

I knew the distance I could walk away from the landline phone (whose sole purpose was verbal communication) plugged into the kitchen wall was equal to the exact length of the stretched-out cord attached to the receiver. If I needed to get a pen and paper from across the room to write the caller’s number down so my brother could ring them back when he gets out of the bathroom and those writing implements were farther away than the extended cord length plus my arm span, I had to say, “Hold on a sec.” Then came answering machines and cordless phones. Then cellphones. And here I sit, waiting to FaceTime with my brother who’s vacationing in Mexico.

Fortunately, I’m young enough that neither original task required me to walk up hill both ways in the snow. Because, according to my parents, I had it easier than when they were my age.

So, AI in some iteration has been around for a long time. The problem is when AI advances so much it stops being used as a tool, i.e. spellcheck, and becomes a replacement, i.e. Grammarly. I enjoy the physical act of writing at my desk or typing on my computer. And I get satisfaction from revising drafts until I have the best version I can offer. I wouldn’t want to relinquish these pleasures to an AI program for the sake of having something to post on this platform.

In the interest of full disclosure, I looked up the Lassie and Disney information because I’m hard-pressed to recall what I had for breakfast yesterday morning, never mind the specific channels and times two shows were on that I watched 54 years ago. The situation and setting are based on a real-life experience. The details are accurate thanks to a search engine. Combined, I hope they resulted in something worth taking the time to read.

Not having to commit information to memory because Bing or Google can access it within seconds is a helpful resource when writing. The big issue is when people pass off an AI generated story as originating from their own creative thought process. That undermines the art of writing.

As a tech neophyte, I don’t know what an AI generated story looks like because I’m not tuned in to the nuances that distinguish a story created by a logarithm from one personally composed. Thankfully, I do know that “Mike Johnson” with a thick Indonesian accent from McAfee Support is in fact not an actual McAfee employee. And he is not going to assist me in reversing the supposed $699 charge to my credit card that I didn’t authorize for a year’s subscription of protecting my computer from viruses. He’s a scammer using technology to create the illusion he’s a compassionate human.

So that’s my take on this topic. I’ve got to go now. The Keurig is summoning me to finish watching its PowerPoint presentation on the possible ways to resolve the conflict in the Middle East. It’s been very insightful so far. But I have noticed that all the thought-provoking solutions offered have a recurring theme involving both sides drinking more coffee. Hmmm, wait a second. You don’t think...nah, never mind, I’m just being cynical. Technology wouldn’t ever become that nefarious.

CONCEPTION

I felt the initial wave of nausea during dessert after taking the last bite of my third piece of pie. Stopping to catch my breath, I tried neutralizing the discomfort by finishing my glass of eggnog. This gesture was ineffective. Not wanting to acknowledge my gut feeling, I excused myself from the post meal conversation and went upstairs to swap out my already unbelted, unbuttoned chinos for sweatpants. Even after changing and without tightening the drawstring, there was no relief.

Slowly navigating down the stairs and proceeding back into the kitchen, I grabbed a clean plate and snagged more sweet potatoes with marshmallows before they were transferred into a Tupperware container. Grandma looked up from washing the serving utensils and made the comment, “There’s a certain glow to you.” She turned as I walked by and rubbed my belly. This is when I accepted that I was pregnant with a holiday food baby.

This is not my first food baby. I had two last year (Easter and Fourth of July) with three the year before (Super Bowl Sunday, Valentine’s Day and Pop’s retirement party). So, by now I am immune to getting emotional. I know the routine. Unlike the 38 to 42 weeks required for a standard baby, the gestation period for a food baby is 38 to 42 hours. So, I understand the importance of getting things in order and preparing for my new little bundle of joy. Speaking of little bundles of joy, I ate six more buttered crescent rolls to tie me over until my snack before bedtime.

Nobody at the table was surprised when I shared the news. My one cousin did say, “Now that you mention it, I think I’m with child, too.” Just like her to try and steal the spotlight from my important moment. I knew it was a false pregnancy because of her uncontrollable flatulence. She wasn’t gravid. She was gassy.

FIRST TRIMESTER

My supportive family hastily organized a baby shower. With such short notice and the out-of-town kinfolk’s flights leaving the next morning, I couldn’t burden them by expecting anything extravagant. I didn’t even have time to register at Dunkin Donuts or Omaha Steaks. I did enjoy eating the meal of reheated turkey, stuffing and mashed potatoes with gravy while appreciating their effort. And with the nearby grocery store still open, those in attendance were gracious in gifting me an eight-pack of Charmin (“Quilted for his pleasure”), some Wet Wipes and a bottle of Tums.

I solicited their opinions to help me choose which professional should assist in the delivery once my water breaks. Thankfully, I have a few hours to decide between:

1) A Gen Z pediatrician specializing in gastronome pregnancies.

2) A non-judgmental proctologist with a 5-star rating from Yelp.

3) The local Roto-Rooter man who is on call 24/7.

SECOND TRIMESTER

My ankles are swollen. Might be from the excessive ham I nosh on between trips to pee. Don’t know how my food baby is pushing against my bladder, but it’s annoying having to put down a fork full of mac and cheese every fifteen minutes so I can waddle to the potty.

Sleeping on my side took some adjustment. I found that a pillow between my bent knees makes a difference. Although the reoccurring dream of being chased by a giant, partially carved turkey while I throw homemade cranberry sauce back at it in defense is what’s really preventing me from getting a full eight hours of slumber.

The baby kicks a lot in response to me opening the refrigerator. Cute in a Pavlovian, gluttonous sort of way. It feels as if it is riding lower than before.

THIRD TRIMESTER

My body continues changing. I’m simultaneously experiencing brain fog, linea nigra and the mask of pregnancy. My mood swings like an unsecured shutter in hurricane force winds. Those within earshot try appeasing me with green bean casserole. It works.

All the cocoa butter in the world won’t erase the hideous stretch marks that creep across my belly. And don’t get me started on my hemorrhoids. I swear I am taller sitting down than standing up. Seriously.

As much as I enjoy the process of creating a food baby, I want this one out of me soon. Very soon. In keeping with the previous deliveries, I’m opting for a natural birth. But I am not opposed to the use of an epidural, C-section or Colace suppositories if complications arise. Nothing is routine when a food baby enters this world.

DELIVERY

Well, I am now the proud father of a three-pound, bobbing miracle. Cigars for everyone. Decided to wait a spell before naming the baby. I want to get a better feel for his personality. The resemblance to me is uncanny. We both have brown hair. The recovery is going well. I get some exercise in with multiple trips to scour the refrigerator for any leftover leftovers.

SOMBER EPILOGUE

Tragedy struck while I was having my food baby baptized. Some witness (I suspect my jealous cousin), flushed the toilet during the ceremony.

Goodbye, Beauregard Miller. Shine bright you little stinker. You’ll always be #1 in my heart.

I will be in mourning, wearing black because it’s slimming, until New Year’s Eve.

“Cassius Marcellus Coolidge,” Mary shrieked upon entering the living room, “get those dogs off the chairs and away from that table this instant.” Startled by his wife returning home earlier than expected, Cash sheepishly replied, “Yes dear. Sorry dear.” Although today’s portrait session was cut short, this didn’t upset Cash because he had already completed most of the painting. The rest he could finish on his own later.